


separate my side

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7349785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he weren’t so busy trying to follow the fat line of dick from Sam’s groin to thigh, he might be insulted.</p><p>They're living in an RV in the middle of Georgia, it's too hot to be productive and Sam hasn't got any idea that his big brother's salivating over his dick in between sparring practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	separate my side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scarlet_Ribbons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/gifts), [somersault_j](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somersault_j/gifts).



> HOKAY so I've been bogged down by a super huge project that I placed (ON MYSELF YOU GUYS) so here's some PWP that I tried to make SOLELY porn but I fucked that up royally so take a little pain with your boy-sex, alright?
> 
> Also, Scar, baby, this shit hit me out of left field and I hope it's REMOTELY hot, man, I just did some stuff with penises  
> And to Somer, babez, hope this makes it onto your pinboard; take this fucking debauchery please
> 
> Title taken from Otherside by RHCP.

Hits Dean in the solar plexus.

About knocks him unconscious, and, as it is, it causes him to lose his footing and Sam sends him sprawling six feet into the dirt, wiry ankle hooked around Dean’s calf like an anchor.

Sam hovers over top, hair lank with sweat, and Dean squints his eyes open enough to follow the tapered line of waist to pectorals to shoulders; Sam blocks out the sun with all the grace of a mirage.

“What the fuck, Dean?” he says, gasps out his air between locked teeth and Dean catches his brother’s hand on the upswing, hauls himself back on two feet.

Dean’s palms catch on the dry drag of Sam’s skin and his little brother looks confused; nothing fun-sized about him.

“Fucking A, Sammy,” Dean grumbles, “got enough air up there? Altitude makin’ your head spin yet?”

Sam scowls, petulance at its finest and Dean’s heart settles somewhere south of Normal. “Can’t much hear you from way down yonder,” Sam drawls purposefully.

“They still cousin-fucking down there?” Sam says, skips back, hauls that lean body just out of Dean’s wingspan.

It’s not fair that he’s spark-quick on top of gaining all that muscle mass, and Dean feels envy sour in his stomach, tastes like bile.

“I’d ask your kids,” Dean threatens, “but you know little Elmira came out with only the one good ear, and I don’t wanna antagonize her,” Dean replies, and Sam guffaws, so loud and sunny that Dean shudders with the force of it.

“Man,” Sam breathes, “you’re such a goddamn fuck,” he adds, so cheerful that Dean’s mouth splits wide.

“Watch your mouth,” Dean admonishes, so half-hearted that Sammy doesn’t even bother feigning irritation.

“My, my,” Sam says, brushes dirt and grass off of polyester, scratches at the downy hair lining his happy trail, “how the mighty have fallen.”

Dean reaches up to cuff his brother upside the back of the head, and his fingers brush against neck, instead.

There’s a direct correlation to that and when he first started figuring out how to slide his brother’s big dick into his ass.

-

Sam’s never fucked anyone or anything, pussy or otherwise.

Dean would know, sense it on him, wet-heat of petal-folds. Dean scents for it whenever Sam comes home late from nerd group in whatever town they’re squatting in that week.

Sam smells clean enough, and on some notable occasions, like come.

Dean’s weaseled all of the best stories out of baby bro, plied him high with adult-supervised liquor and gone to town.

Sam’s not a lightweight but he hasn’t yet mastered the art of figuring out where his limits lie and how to hang tight to them.

He waves glass in the air, cream tint splashes down one sleeve and into his stretched-wide collar.

The in-between of Dean’s legs _aches._

He’s so thirsty to spitroast himself, claim Sammy inside and out that he can barely breathe past play-acting brotherly.

He can’t quite still his mind and remember that he’s a degenerate; he wants something Sam’ll never be able to give him, that Dean can’t take.

“Think--Dean, s’it sposed to be so much goddamned _teeth?_ ” Sam whines, voice trickled into the lowest register, puberty smoothing out the hiccups.

Dean’s dick jumps forlornly against his thigh; man’s voice emitting from his baby brother’s teenage chest.

Dean’s gonna be sick, all up and down this room.

Dean shrugs like it doesn’t matter, like he hasn’t got a care in this world past the way Sam’s taking up three-fourths of the space in this RV.

It’s an ‘83 Fleetwood Pace Arrow, battered shingles and mud-brown interior. It looks like it’s been waxed down with teenage sweat and copious amounts of weed.

Dean hangs his neck back against slip-slide headrests and wonders aloud about how there’s no need for a rear cross axle in this old ass piece of shit.

Sam’s silent for a second, caught off guard by the change in subject and then he’s snorting into the empty air, working-class tan on his neck bleeding into a flushed face.

“Rear suspension,” Sammy says carelessly, like Dean didn’t know that, didn’t figure that the Arrow was the first to use that design, that Dean wouldn’t have that down to a science.

If he weren’t so busy trying to follow the fat line of dick from Sam’s groin to thigh, he might be insulted.

“But really, Dean,” Sam says loftily, and Dean grunts in acknowledgment.

“You’re supposed to be--dude, you’re supposed to be giving me tips, here,” Sam grumbles and Dean sputters lukewarm PBR back down his chest.

“Wanna show an’ tell, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam hauls himself upright, splays thick thighs open and his head lolls back.

“Not much to tell,” Sam says drunkenly. “Not much you ain’t already seen, either,” he adds, flippant to the last, and Dean chugs the remainder of his beer and hides glass where Dad won’t know to look when he makes it home.

-

The problem is, Sam doesn’t know what he’s got so he doesn’t ever bother hiding it.

Number two on the list is that Dean is running out of fucks to give. He’s got a fistful of college acceptance letters, tangled underneath that damn rear suspension he’s been so proud of.

Fixed it right up so that he could move the damn thing even though Dad told them they weren’t allowed, under any circumstances.

‘Course, Dean figures they might need to move in a hurry seeing as Dad’s got the ‘67 and Sam’s got more shin splints than the kid figures on wrapping up.

Dean’s got seven right here in his fist alone, product of fee waivers and Sam’s marketable intelligence at hiding all the shit he doesn’t want his family to know about.

He’s such a goddamn bitch.

He’s sitting inside right now, neck bent low over his homework, middle of a fucking Georgian heatwave, all sun-spit shine and perseverance.

To some degree, Dean thinks he wants him to know, left them there understanding that Dean would rummage around there someday.

Sweat’s cooling on the nape of his neck and he’s damp between his legs, wonders about that boy and what exactly he’s planning on becoming.

He can taste his heartbeat and it’s a rust-brand, lurched up to settle in his throat.

He’s still laying there when the Arrow stutters above him; Sammy’s moving. He’s not bothering with silence, doesn’t think Dean’s home.

He turns his head to the side, scrapes up his cheek on gravel and rolls out from under the RV, ambles up onto knees.

He’s about two seconds away from hurling, letters tucked back underneath the mound he’d accidentally unearthed.

He stays low, breathes in deep so he can collect himself and look at Sammy’s lying fucking face and not punch him square in the chin.

He’s vibration; out of control in the worst way and he’s got probably ten seconds before Sammy’s freakish spidey-sense forces his sunburnt head out the side of the door to look for his big brother.

He forces himself up three steps, door clatters solidly behind him and because he knows there’s no hope he’s not at all surprised to find his brother sprawled out dead center of the floor, dick tacky in one big hand.

Someone’s having a good ass laugh at his expense and Dean firms right on up from where he’s been wilted by the heat all day.

Sam’s neck is exposed, sheen of exertion, and Dean makes some kind of sound, frightening, it must be, because Sam’s owl-eyes flicker wide and his dick firms further with adrenaline.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sam breathes, irritated that he’s been interrupted but Dean doesn’t think he deserves any sort of feelings on any matter at all.

“All worked up with no place to go?” Dean hears, dry and far off, and Sam’s face reddens and then tightens in anger.

“I’m good right here, thanks,” Sam drawls, all lazy and warm and youth and Dean’s chest stutter-rips free and _this is what they meant_

“No teeth,” Dean says, makes a decision that surprises himself because he’s not as impulsive as he may seem, every Winchester movement is patented and dissected and Dean’s been trying to figure out how to impale himself on Sam since the kid first waved his dick around.

“Figured,” Sam says, still hasn’t moved his hand from his cock and it’s tilted in his grasp, confused.

“No,” Dean repeats, stupid, shoves sticky shorts down his thighs, no underwear besides.

Sam scoots up the carpet and winces at the instantaneous burn. “Fuck,” Sam says, scrunches his head twice and his eyes widen as Dean strips to his birthday suit and grins, wild-eyed.

“M’not gonna use any teeth on you,” Dean says, slowly, for the learning-impaired.

Sam’s off-kilter and Dean takes advantage, straddles strong thighs and rests the crease of his ass on top of Sam’s hand and the brand of his cock and Sam’s hand loosens only to flatten on Dean’s ass cheek.

“Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus. Dean. Oh Jesus _Christ,”_ Sam repeats, little-brother-stupid and Dean laughs but it comes out like a growl and Sam’s hand flexes just as his dick fattens that bit further.

“You gonna--what’re you doing, Dean?” Sam says, still trusting in that way he shouldn’t be. Not with Dean ready to screw him senseless.

“You’re an idiot,” Dean says calmly, “but I didn’t figure you for skipping out on Sex Ed,” he says plainly, and Sam’s brows rise and then flatten.

“Didn’t know I’d be shoving my brother full of dick at the time,” Sam counters, rolls with every punch and Dean wants to kiss him.

He squirms instead, grinds down on that delicious line of little brother and Sam’s hips screw up with a violent jerk.

Almost knocks Dean free of his perch but he tightens his thighs and Sam’s hands come up to dig into his hips.

“You gonna let me?” Dean asks, unnecessarily, and Sam tilts his head to the side, like he can _see_ and Dean presses down harder and his eyes glaze over, mouth hung slack.

“I don’t--Dean, I never,” Sam tries, turns rose and his fingernails are gonna leave bruises. Sam doesn’t seem to realize that he’s huge now, can’t tell that Dean can barely breathe around the clutch of wide palms.

“You can do whatever you want, huh?” Sam begs, and Dean screws his hips down harder, allows the sticky crown of Sam’s dick to prod at his unopened hole.

“Oh fuck,” Sam groans, “you gonna let me put it in you?” Sam’s filthier than he knows how to be and Dean’s neck tilts back on a moan.

“You are, ain’t you?” Sam says, almost insensate, and the head catches on the opening and Dean loves his brother and all, but he’s not grinding that pole raw-inside.

“Lemme have it then,” Sam says, firm in a way that Dean didn’t expect. “Be patient,” Dean grits out. “Good shit comes to those who wait,” he adds, and when Sam laughs it vibrates through his body and Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

“What do--what you need me to do,” Sam asks, hips winding in semi-circles that he just can’t seem to control.

Dean leans forward, balances his palms on Sam’s chest and marvels at the veins, the splay of strength that his brother earned but never wanted.

“Be fucking still,” he hisses, and Sam tries to slow to a halt; he does, but then his dick plumps and finally slots itself right in Dean’s crease and Sam looks up, wide-eyed.

“Not an option,” Sam breathes out, “better do something quick or I’m gonna come,” Sam admits, and Dean groans so loud his neck trickles with blush and Sam’s smile is feral, satisfied.

“You want that? That’s it?” Sam says, and Dean wants to backtrack, snatch back the upper hand but Sam’s too quick of a learner for his own good.

“This what’s been making you act like a little bitch,” Sam teases, uses those hands to hold Dean in place.

“You been wanting me to cream you up,” Sam says, wonderment coloring his tone more than amusement and Dean’s nodding because why should he make a liar out of both of them?

“Could’ve asked,” Sam says, and Dean laughs again. “Gotta show you, first,” he says, breathless. “My game,” Dean adds, just in case Sam was unclear.

Sam doesn’t look content with that but then Dean’s rising and fumbling with his pockets because he’s been carrying around a battered tube of KY for _months_ now, like that was gonna give him the gumption needed to open himself his legs up dirty for his brother.

Sam’s face is free-lined with awe and Dean climbs back on top; he’s done this part.

He’s never been fucked but that’s none of Sam’s business and he’s been widening his boundaries for Sammy all his life; this part’s easy.

First finger slides in like honey and he can’t help the trip his heart makes and Sammy’s so fucking _greedy,_ drags his palms from hips to ass and stretches them wider so that Dean can screw real deep.

“Fuck. Fuck, turn around. Turn around, I wanna see,” Sam begs, and Dean obliges, God help him, as in all things, and bends forward so that he can suckle at the head of Sam’s dick, almost-69.

Sam makes some kind of cry between a gunshot wound and actual death and Dean’s dick is caught in between the press of abdomen.

He’s two fingers in, scissoring them wider than normal for Sammy’s eyes, all heat and gape, and Sam’s finger flutters uncertainly around taut skin and Dean hums in appreciation over top Sam’s dick.

Sam flexes, grinds up into Dean’s wet mouth and Dean drools over the onslaught, chokes on an unexpected further six and he’s crying.

“Jus’ lemme, fuck, lemme,” Sam stutters, and then his index presses on in, slotted in between Dean’s digits and he pumps languidly, so careful, like his finger isn’t thicker than Dean’s and twice as long.

Dean allows Sam’s dick to slip free in favor of a wide moan and the tip catches him on the chin, smears him messy with precome and spit.

“Hey, hey, Dean?” Sam says carefully, and Dean can recognize that pinch-tight voice, savors it even though this is the last he’ll ever hear it.

“M’gonna--look, fucking slick me up, man, I can’t fucking handle it--” Sam says, and Dean reaches behind him blindly; it’s better this way, he doesn’t have to look, and rubs the excess on his hole with his free hand, pillows his face on Sam’s dick and spread-thighs.

He shoves forward; Sam’s finger pops free and he groans in disappointment but he doesn’t have long until Dean’s smearing his dick slick with one hand and sliding down with the other.

He can’t see Sam’s face but he can hear the rush of air and then Sam jerks him down three further inches and Dean cries out in pain.

“Fuck. Fuck, you need off? Fuck, Dean m’sorry,” Sam slurs, drunk on sex and high and Dean blinks back mixed tears and seats himself entirely, ignores the flash-burn of agony in his backside.

It’s not too bad, fades quickly due to prep and Sam’s grunting behind him, aborted sounds that come with every jerk of his still-spasming hips.

“You got no idea how messy I wanna make you,” Sam mutters, mouth wild as it always is; he doesn’t care for convention and he’ll do as he pleases.

“Lettin’ me have this,” Sam says, same astonishment in his tone from earlier. “Giving it up all pretty for little brother,” Sam says, louder, and Dean watches his skin color to pink in embarrassment.

Sam would have the nastiest mouth, Dean thinks wildly, and then Sam’s raising all his body weight off his dick only to slam him back home, and Dean’s mouth drops on a scream and that just spurs Sam on.

“Like this, like this, like this,” Sam murmurs and Dean grunts and braces his hand on the flex of Sam’s thighs, even sweatier than they were at the beginning.

“All you got?” Dean says, chokes on Sam’s name. _This how you gonna leave me_ he adds in his mind but Sam takes the challenge for what it is, goaded.

Sam removes one hand from Dean’s hips, snakes it up his spine and leaves it to rest tightly on Dean’s neck, cuts off his air supply so quick that Dean’s lightheaded instantly.

Other hand he moves to Dean’s dick, long arms giving him the reach needed to curl around burning flesh and strip it raw, jack Dean off with the efficiency that Sam maintains in all things.

Dean can’t speak, snow-spots in front of his vision and there’s a waterfall in his ears and he can barely hear Sam beneath.

“M’gonna fuck you into the _ground,”_ Sam promises, and he’s bouncing Dean reverse with just his thighs and Dean remembers that there’s a lesson in here somewhere but he can find it because he’s spurting all over Sam’s raw fingers.

He can hear himself whimpering, all he can manage with the noose-grip of Sam’s fingers on his neck, locked onto untouched skin.

Sam’s hands fall away in unison and Dean slumps forward instantly but then Sam’s manhandling him around so that Dean’s facing him and Dean closes his eyes on instinct.

Sam reaches one palm up to his cheek and doesn’t demand anything. Pumps his hips in a wide circle and pulls Dean’s ass open with his left hand, taps two fingers against the vulgar spread of skin to cock.

Dean whines for the sensitivity, struggles to free himself from the invasion but Sam laughs, heavy and low, and then he’s coming, no warning and Dean’s eyes fly open at the warmth.

Sam’s staring hard at him, been doing it since he first forced Dean to spin on his dick and Dean tries to look away but Sam’s hand tightens on purpose and he’s talking, disjointed and careless.

“All this time,” Sam hisses, “you goddamn asshole,” he continues, knocks Dean up and plugs him full; this is his tomb.

Dean tries to rise, later, when he’s got his legs back, but Sam stops him with one tilt of his hips, noiseless command that he stay sealed.

-

In the end, it’s Sammy that’s gonna need the Fleetwood when Dean leaves in the middle of the night, fucking drug addict running from his next fix.

He spreads every last letter all careful on the floor, still slightly damp from boy-sweat. He handles them reverently, clears them of dirt and excess because they obviously mean something to his brother.

The suspension is good as new and Sam won’t have to hitchhike all the way to Wherever in the two weeks before the semester begins.

Takes him an hour and a half of walking to realize that neither father nor brother will ever forgive him.

 


End file.
